


i found a reason

by curlymcclain



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate AU, You have a tattoo of your soulmates first words to you etc etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 20:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21434521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlymcclain/pseuds/curlymcclain
Summary: "Harry Potter.""Fuck you."Everyone has their soulmate's first words to them etched somewhere on their body.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 45
Kudos: 555





	i found a reason

**Author's Note:**

> based on a headcanon post i wrote on tumblr that i couldnt get out of my head. i wrote this in a day to put off writing the next part of my fix it fic ok dont think too hard about it

Audrey Decker had always loved a mystery. 

As a girl, her favorite books were capers, her favorite paintings always swam in shadow. She would hide things around the house and give her father a set of clues he had to decode in order to locate them. He usually played along unless it was something important like the keys to the stable, or if the clue was simply “Use your wits!”

Her penchant for puzzles followed her into adulthood- but the people she found herself surrounded by had far less patience for them. As the years passed, she felt her love for the unknown begin to slip as the world became more complicated all by itself. 

Yet there was one mystery she never got to the bottom of, one to keep frowning over for the rest of her life. For most people, this was the only question that mattered. It concerned a small etching in the smooth skin on the inside of her forearm. In neat, boxy letters: _ You have to check first. _

Audrey had been called lucky her whole life for having such a sentence, compared to the majority of the population who sported _ Hello _ or _ Excuse me. _But when she met Larry Decker, she felt suddenly like such luck had been wasted on her. She was very proud to be among the few who followed their hearts instead of waiting to hear the right words.

She’d been wrong, of course. It hadn’t taken her long to realize it. Maybe if it weren’t for Theo, she would have left and looked for the right person. 

Still, Theo made her excited about mysteries again- he made her excited about everything again. Suddenly her life-imploding blunder didn’t seem so life-imploding. He took more after her, anyway- why could he not be her soulmate, the only one she needed? That’s what she told him as a boy when he asked if the words on her arm were Larry’s first words to her, and she had had to tell him _ no. _

His words appeared later than most did, not until he was almost six months old. Audrey had breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of them, then immediately grew bewildered. Peeking out from underneath the hair behind his left ear was- in almost illegible scrawl- _ Harry Potter. _

* * *

The people Boris met were typically as unsurprised by his words as he was proud of them. His mark ran up the side of his hand, in large and girly handwriting, from the joint of his wrist to the bottom of his pinky. FUCK YOU.

He liked how visible it was, too. Despite the obnoxiously straight writing, it gave him an edge he found appealing; one more piece of armor he used to protect himself from the world. 

The only thing that bothered him about it, really, was the fact that it was in English. His father hated that, for some reason, wished it was in Polish like his was. _ Polish women, Borya. Make the best wives. _Boris grimaced and didn’t respond. 

There was something comforting about the words- he ran his fingers over them absentmindedly as he listened to music or looked out onto whatever wasteland he was stuck in at the time. And if they were in an English-speaking country, he couldn’t help himself but wait around for it. 

But he realized as soon as he learned the language that there was a problem: _ Fuck you _were very often the first words someone said to him. Very, very often. 

Slowly, the romantic in him faded, or at least did the hope of finding his steady-handed English girl. (Or boy. He wasn’t quite sure.) 

He didn’t much mourn her. Life went on. 

* * *

Theo and Audrey spent years brainstorming. Harry Potter. The first explanation was that this was his soulmate’s name- but the stiff smirk on his dad’s face when his mom suggested it at the dinner table was wide enough to make her not bring it up again. It was also wide enough for Theo to see, and realize _ oh. I’m not supposed to be like that. _

They thought of other possibilities for a few years. But, as these things often go, the mark on you becomes just a mark, and you think less and less about it until the day comes where you don’t have the luxury anymore. Theo felt especially ambivalent towards his, since he couldn’t even see it without a mirror, and even then it was backwards and sideways, mostly obscured by his hair. Not to mention that the handwriting of his soulmate was possibly the worst he’d ever seen. He might as well have been sporting an ugly birthmark.

Then, during the first week of fourth grade, Theo got called out of class to go home early. His mother was waiting in the front office, drumming her fingers impatiently on the desk. Beaming at the sight of him, she all but dragged him out the doors by the arm. 

“I was going to wait to show you until you got home, but I was too excited. I hope you weren't having too much fun in class, huh?” she said with a wiggling eyebrow once they were seated on the subway.

“Don’t you have work?” Theo asked, completely lost.

“You know Mathilde, who I work with?”

He nodded, of course. 

“Well,” she took a deep breath, eyes gleaming. “She’s always looking for the next big thing, and she was telling us today about this book. Apparently it’s already popular in the U.K., well I’ve never heard of it, but still. Usually I hear _ something _about these things-“

“Mom, what is it?” 

She ran a thumb across his cheek, taking a deep breath before reaching into her tote bag and pulling out a hardcover book. “It just came out here a few days ago. When she mentioned the title- I about fell over. I knew I had to run and get a copy for you.”

Theo’s eyes were glued to the book in his hands. He looked up at her grinning face, then down at it again, as if it might blink suddenly out of view.

She threw an arm over his shoulder and looked at the title with him. “What do you think about _ that, _huh?” 

“Oh, um,” he stammered. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” she rubbed his arm with her hand, the way she might if he was cold. They sat for a long moment, looking at the book’s cover awash in the yellowish light of the subway car. Finally, she sniffed.

Theo looked up at her, alarmed- but she wasn’t crying, at least not yet. She grinned at him again with her glassy eyes. “You know what, puppy?” she said thickly. She pointed to the drawing on the cover. 

“He kinda looks like you.”

* * *

Boris’ parents had not been soulmates, either. His father’s soulmate had been his first wife, and Boris’ mother had been his second. Of the people they met in their travels, very few of them _ had _ found the right person. He concluded that either this was the way things were everywhere, or it was a testament to the sorts of people he found himself surrounded with. 

But Bami knew his soulmate. He talked about her often as he cooked. Boris would kick the cabinets with his heels and listen to stories of Bami’s small family- his wife Kartika, whom he’d met through their parents, and whom he spoke about with an unmistakable perkiness in his voice. 

His one son was too young for Boris to play with, but he didn’t mind. Bami was in his early forties but acted younger, and gave Boris as much wise advice as he did crass jokes that he’d learned as a boy, for Boris to “never repeat.” 

After they’d bonded, they began spending almost as much time at the mosque as they did in Boris’ house. That was around when he asked what it was like to meet her. 

Bami had thought for a long moment before replying. “There are no words,” he said with a quirk of the lips. “Funny to say, since all it is is words. It may not make sense to hear it now. She said my words to me, and it was like…” he had a distant, far-off look that Boris never forgot. “How to put it. It was like a sunrise.”

Boris wrinkled his nose. “A _ sunrise_?”

“No face like that, now,” Bami laughed, holding up a finger. “A sunrise inside. Like I said, it sounds terrible, but this is the only way I know to describe the feeling. You will know it when it happens to you.”

Boris fiddled with his bracelets, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe not,” he shrugged. “Am not sure I’m capable of it. Sunrise feeling. No offense to you, my friend. It sounds beautiful, but… maybe is not for everyone.”

“No, no,” Bami shook his head wryly. “Not for everyone. But I think it will be that way for you, Badr. You are full of more love than most people put together.”

He said it with such sincerity that for a moment, Boris believed him.

* * *

The sun beats down on the mob of high schoolers milling about the bus loop, the meager shade provided by the buildings failing to stave off the desert heat. Theo stands uncomfortably, cursing his choice to wear a button up today. 

Someone sidles up next to him, emerging from the crowd. “Hah,” he chuckles. It’s the boy from earlier, Theo remembers, the one who had shot him that knowing glance during their class "debate" on Thoreau. 

His expression now is much less forgiving as he rakes Theo’s outfit over with a shrewdness beyond his years.

“Harry Potter.”

Whenever someone mentions Harry Potter, Theo feels some sort of twisted kinship, like someone has brought up one of his family members in casual conversation. But since his mother’s death, he can’t think about those two words in any other context but her. 

He rolls his eyes.

* * *

“Fuck you.”

Boris does think about it. He’s been watching this particular boy since the beginning of the school year; something about his odd demeanor and his sad glances during class are compelling to Boris- a mystery. One made even more mysterious by this, right now.

There isn’t a sunrise, but more of an abrupt twinge; a fingernail scratching up his spine, a button being pressed in the back of his brain that had been gathering so much dust he can no longer read the label.

He doesn’t know _ it _. But he knows something. Enough to plop down next to the boy on the bus. Enough to invite him to his house. Enough to cover up his right hand just so. Something in him tells him not to let Theo see.

* * *

  
  


“Oh.”

“What?”

“I guess I assumed it was a tattoo.”

“It is, sort of.”

“No, like a real tattoo.”

“You think I would pay to have ‘fuck you’ tattooed on my hand?”

“Yes. Of course you would.”

They sit by the pool, jeans rolled up, dangling skinny shins into the water. Theo doesn’t take the hand Boris is offering for him to inspect. He just glances at it, with his own hands firmly pressed to the limestone tile.

“What about you, Potter?” Boris withdraws his arm. “Don’t think I have ever asked, in all this time.”

Theo fiddles with the fraying hem of his (Boris’) t-shirt. “Yeah, well, probably because it doesn’t matter.”

Theo has never thought Boris’ words were a tattoo- not really. Still, what he had said just now wasn’t a _ lie _ exactly_, _since Theo has been telling himself that it had to be a normal tattoo so adamantly for so many months that he’s almost convinced himself of it. 

Because the only thing that had been worse than realizing that Boris was probably his soulmate was realizing how much he didn’t mind.

“How can it not matter?” Boris scoffs.

“I just don’t think it does,” Theo hopes he doesn’t sound too defensive. “Plenty of soulmates break up. Almost as many as couples who aren't. I don’t see-“

“So?” He holds his arms up in the air for emphasis. “_So? _Even if you lose them, or you never find them. I have to believe it matters. At least to make you who you are.”

It’s Theo’s turn to scoff. “Having ‘fuck you’ gouged into your hand makes you who you are. Okay.”

“Yes, I think so,” Boris says, ignoring the sarcasm. “Not sure how much _ love _ will come of it for me. But still.”

In the pause that follows, Theo’s screaming fear that Boris will ask again about his words threatens to shatter his eardrums. Before another word can be spoken, he slides into the pool, and grabs Boris’ ankle on the way down. Just for good measure.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It isn’t long after that night that Boris sees it for himself.

Theo passed out twenty minutes ago, his back turned to Boris, still covered in sweat. But Boris is wide awake, tempted even to get up and walk around the empty house just for something to do. 

He settles for stumbling into the bathroom and running his mouth under the faucet. When he climbs back into bed, Popchyk circling his feet, Theo mumbles something nondescript and rolls onto his back.

It was a few months ago that Boris began to suspect his feelings for Theo may not be exactly in line with most boys’ feelings for their best friends. Most boys don’t dream about their friends like he does, or have the urges that Boris has. Not just sexual urges- though that’s another thing most boys do not do with their friends- but the urge to take everything awful that Theo carries and hoist it onto his own back. To follow him with it, wherever he wants to go. 

He turns on his side, looking at Theo as he sleeps. His hair has grown a lot, it covers up one of his eyes- it looks strange, since his glasses are usually there to prevent it. Slowly, Boris reaches out his hand to right the wrong. 

Against his better instincts, he lets his hand linger as he puts the hair back into place. Theo would never let him do that while awake- at least not sober. Boris lets himself pull his fingers through the knots in his hair, gently, since the last thing he wants is for Theo to wake up to this. How’d he’d even begin to explain, he doesn’t know. Maybe he would smack him as hard as he could and claim he’d seen a spider.

Boris is still rifling through crisis scenarios and possible excuses when he notices dark lines, poking out from behind Theo’s ear. 

His thoughts stop cold. His hand freezes along with them. 

Theo hasn’t told him what his words are, or where. Whenever it comes up- rarely- he always manages to deflect, distract Boris long enough to drop the topic completely. But still he’s wondered.

Before he can hesitate, he pulls Theo’s hair back from the spot- and snaps his hand back like he’s been burnt. 

His penmanship, in English, looks like “chicken scratch” according to his teachers. But Boris has always been able to read it just fine.

Harry Potter.

Harry Potter.

Boris flips onto his back and glares at the ceiling. What now, he thinks. Bring it up tomorrow? Shove him awake right now? Obviously Theo knows, has known since the beginning with words like that- who else would it be. 

He pictures the panicked rage that could fly across Theo’s features at the suggestion. There’s clearly a reason he hasn’t said anything. 

Boris thinks, it’s probably best to wait until the time is right. 

He thinks, we have all the time in the world.

* * *

  
  


And when they say goodbye, they’re both aware of Boris’ hand cupping Theo’s face, the two sets of words just inches apart. It’s almost enough to make one of them leave, and the other stay. But not quite.

And when Theo starts living at Hobie’s, he notices the slanted cursive that loops around his ankle one morning when he’s in his slippers. The same writing pops up in the margins of his books, on old receipts in the shop. Hobie is unashamed to tell him the story of Welty’s mark, in a way Theo can only see as impossible.

And when Boris begins to move up the ranks of the organization, he finds himself telling a different story to everyone he meets. It’s easier to say he saved his soulmate from the maw of a shark than it is to tell the truth- that the ‘Potter’ they hear tales about has one more story to fit into. 

And when Theo’s barber cuts his hair too close and someone in his American Literature class barks, “_Harry Potter?!” _he cuts class for a week.

And when Boris wakes up with his head on Myriam’s lap and absolutely no recollection of the night before, she tells him that he’d drunkenly confessed the story of his friend, his mark, and passed out there before he could do something stupid like call. 

And when Pippa gets engaged to a man whose words do not match hers, Theo has to reconcile the fact that when it comes to her, he believes soulmates must be real, while vehemently denying it when it comes to Boris.

And when Boris loses the painting. He looks down at the little _ FUCK YOU _and thinks it has never felt more appropriate.

  
  


* * *

  
  


More than a decade after they meet, Theo sits on Boris’ low sofa in Antwerp and half-watches _ Rear Window. _Boris himself stands in the kitchen heating up shitty canned soup.

Theo’s been in the same spot, feet up on the table, shoulders wrapped in an itchy blanket, for almost seven hours, but he doesn’t think he could move if he tried. From the wicked virus coursing through him, to the chaos of the last few days, to the pure shock of simply seeing Boris again after so many years, he’s exhausted, in the deepest possible way. 

Boris plops down on the couch and shoves a bowl and a spoon into his hands. “Eat,” he commands.

“I’m really not-“

“Won’t hear that. Eat it.”

Boris isn’t a very good caretaker, but it’s not like he ever was. Theo remembers catching a cold in Vegas and Boris stealing him some cough syrup- and spending the next few days making sure to ration it so they would have enough left over to get drunk off of. 

Except now he knows about the other nights when Boris did _ exactly _ the right things to look after him. He doesn’t remember them, but he knows they’d happened.

(“You seriously never wondered where you got that?” Boris had asked him just this morning, pointing to the thin white scar on his third knuckle. “You started falling off garage roof, I had to run and be like, what’s it called. Human shield, or something, I don’t know- yes, laugh, okay! You fell right on top of me, would probably have been hilarious to watch someone else do it. At the time I was just mad; I smacked my head on hard pavement and all you got was little bleeding finger.”)

Theo figures he could draw a grand conclusion from that story: Boris is the only person in the world willing to throw himself in between Theo and the unforgiving earth. But it feels a lot simpler. If the roles were switched, Theo would do the same, and more- he knows now that he would kill.

Boris’ hand lays between them on the sofa. Theo’s words are looking up at him now rather accusingly: _ What’re you going to do about it. _

“You knew,” he hears himself say. It isn’t a question, really. When Boris looks over, Theo gestures to his mark. “You- you knew.”

Boris opens and closes his hand, as if he’s just finished punching someone with it. Sighing, he nods. “I did.”

The movie drones in the background. The volume sounds all but muted, but Theo didn’t see Boris touch the remote. “When?” he asks.

“Pfah.” Boris pinches his nostrils shut for a moment, leaning back, still not looking at him. “Earlier than you probably thought.” He brings his eyebrows together in thought before adding, “And you? You must have known from moment we met. Not many people coming up to you with that line.”

His voice is much softer than usual, as if Theo might break if he jostles him too hard. Fair enough. 

“I’m sorry. I should have said something, I just-“

“S’okay, Potter. I would have been shocked if you did. Might have killed me.” The humor in his tone makes it easier to look at him.

In his eyes are the years of words they didn’t get to share, words wasted and held in, all leading back to those original four that they are never allowed to forget. 

Slowly, their hands find each other. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> lets talk about it
> 
> find me @ curlymcclain.tumblr.com


End file.
